As a mother, I often find myself yearning for the comfort and support of my own mom. Parenting can be a lonely, tiring, and at times, a frustrating experience. There are moments when all I want is her love and reassurance—the kind that used to make everything feel alright. My mother, who once embodied nurturing and understanding, played a pivotal role in shaping the kind of mother I strive to be. She taught me the importance of acceptance and empathy, especially during challenging moments.
My mother was a beacon of grace while navigating the tumultuous waters of adolescence and sibling rivalries. She provided me with the comfort of her presence during my nightmares and let me skip school occasionally just to spend quality time together. I always felt I could be honest with her because she never shamed or judged me. My children could have truly benefited from a grandmother like her, but her battle with alcoholism has created an insurmountable barrier.
The onset of her drinking began when I was around nine years old. I vividly remember the first time I witnessed her darker side. My brother and I had spent a joyful day playing with friends, only to be met with an unexpected and harsh reaction when we asked for a sleepover. She flipped the recliner we were sitting in, surprising us with her sudden aggression. It was confusing and hurtful, especially coming from the mother I adored. As the years passed, I learned that this behavior correlated with her drinking, which she often concealed. The only indicators were the coldness in her eyes and her uncharacteristic demeanor.
For many years, I sought her company only in the mornings, where she would offer apologies for her previous day’s behavior. Eventually, those apologies ceased, and we all accepted her struggle with alcohol—a reality we often dismissed with humor and denial. Conversations about her drinking were always avoided, hidden beneath a veneer of normalcy.
Recently, my mother visited me for the first time in over a year, and it was the first time she met my son, who had already celebrated a birthday. While I looked forward to her visit, I felt a familiar sense of unease. When she drinks, she becomes confrontational and defensive, a far cry from the nurturing person I long for. During her sober moments, I appreciated her insights on various topics, from whether my baby needed medication to home decor choices. Once, after I accidentally broke a picture frame, the comfort of her words—“It’s OK. We’ll get a new one”—was a welcome change from my usual role of managing complaints and making everything right.
She even suggested moving in to help care for my children, a dream scenario in many ways. However, I wished she could recognize the issue that hinders this possibility. One morning, I returned from shopping to find her smoking a cigarette while holding my baby, an image that filled me with frustration. I discovered an open bottle of wine in the kitchen, a reminder of the reality I’ve tried to deny. I couldn’t fathom leaving my children in her care with such habits.
My disappointment in her actions often leads to avoidance. Like many adult children of alcoholics, I find myself skipping family gatherings, not from a lack of love, but to protect myself and my children from the unpredictability of her drinking. It pains me to think she might believe I’m indifferent, while in truth, I desperately want her sober presence in our lives.
I long for her to understand how much richer my life would be with her active involvement, offering guidance and support. I worry she will perceive the distance between us as a reflection of my character, not recognizing that her drinking has created this chasm. I often reflect on my role in this dynamic, pondering whether I should embody the understanding she once showed me. Perhaps her alcoholism could serve as a lesson in unconditional love, but I struggle to separate her vices from the kind-hearted person I know she can be.
The bond I once felt with her—where her presence made everything seem right—has been replaced with longing. As a mother now, I want her not just for myself, but for my children. They miss out on her loving nature, her willingness to spoil them with treats, and her gentle reminders that “they’re just children.” I need my mom, and my children need their grandmother, but there’s a significant hurdle in the way.
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In summary, the journey of navigating a relationship with an alcoholic parent is complex and often painful. While I strive to maintain a connection with my mother, her struggle with alcohol creates an emotional distance that is hard to bridge. My hope is that through understanding and open conversations, we can find a way to reconnect.
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